Convergence of the Banners
by Verok
Summary: Somebody attempts to kill King Thranduil - and his son Legolas is framed as the assassin. Legolas, forced to flee and determined to clear his name, escapes to Minas Tirith - where he finds the real assassin, a least expected former friend of his.
1. Tread Softly, My Dear

Convergence of the Banners: Chapter One

Tread Softly, My Dear

Rating: PG-!3 (for violence, intense themes, and some inappropriate scenes). May increase to an R.

Genre: Drama/Angst. 

Premise: Prince Legolas Greenleaf and his father had been separated by long and bitter strife — and so, when ties between Mirkwood and Gondor begin disintegrating rapidly, Gondor uses that fact to her advantage, and somebody decides to attempt Thranduil's assassination. Both the Crown Prince and the second and third-in-line are good-for-nothings, so the stakes are tremendous if the King ends up getting killed. Prince Legolas is the only option with any hope left for Mirkwood — and yet, soon his own siblings begin turning upon him, trying to achieve his death, while Legolas himself is tremendously pressed by his supporters to usurp the throne by force. And it becomes up to him to uphold the longest standing imperial dynasty of all Arda, to exorcise the intrigues and corruptions from his home court — and to thwart the mysterious assassin's plans to topple his ruling house. And in the process, he is forced to choose where his true loyalties align. 

Disclaimer: I do not own Thranduil, nor Legolas, nor anybody else that Tolkien made up — and as for all the Original Characters, they own themselves. 

A/N: It will be extremely interesting to see how complex political intrigues evolve — that is my favorite type of fic, apart from pure full-out angst angst angst. And, it is even sweeter to see former Fellowship members being turned on each otheryou WILL be getting major supporting roles from ALL members of the Nine (including Boromir — this is Alternate Universe for that one fact, I resurrected him), as well as major secondary characters, fighting each other on both sides. You shall also see major racism playing again. Hell, a full-blown war, anybody? Have fun

And so, we let this madness commence

Convergence of the Banners

Tread Softly, My Dear

"Ignorant bastard!" 

A sharp crack echoed throughout the vast hall as the elven prince was backhanded violently across the face, his porcelain-like skin slashed across the cheek by a jeweled ring. A cruel smile contorted the pale lips of Thranduil as he watched his own son loll his head about in agony, pale-golden hair static and utterly disheveled. A gurgle emancipated from the latter's lips and a slight trickle of gleaming red escaped from the corner of his mouth.

"I beg to differ," Legolas Greenleaf slurred slowly, forming each word with acute difficulty. He righted his head and opened his mouth to receive air into his crushed lungs. "I am no bastard."

"You ARE!!" screamed the King, and another sharp crack followed the epithet. Legolas dug his heels into the cold marble tiling and his neck gave a loud _crick_ as his head was whip-lashed violently back again.

"For what would I care, whether the King of that accursed nation may be your friend, or not?" hissed Thranduil, his voice now dangerous and low. "These menthey say one thing, and their mindsare completely different. They desire power above all else, scum, powerand they care not for anything that may bar the way to their petty goals."

"I am not scum either," retorted Legolas, and he raised his chin defiantly at his father's terrifying expression — a glare with starting eyes, beyond fury. 

"And has nearly thirty centuries of my teaching and preaching gone down the drain?" barked Thranduil. 

Legolas trained his glittering cerulean eyes on the silver ones of his superior, and his lower lip compressed as it was bit. "He and I are companions," he answered, fighting for his voice to remain smooth. 

Thranduil snorted in disdain and paced about the first step of the high marble dias, where his throne was occupied. "He and you _were_ companions," corrected the King, and the green robes swished to face the Prince. "To the race of Numenor, the past holds no bond. For personal benefit they are able to sever anything, give up anything! Their ties are not nearly as strong as that of us the Eldar. Hmph! So he and you are friends. We really shall see if that holds true for long."

"I do not understand," Legolas said obstinately, and the Prince stood up a bit taller, yet he did not dare to reach up a hand and wipe the oozing blood off the swipe on his cheek. "I have not known of any ill will arising between Mirkwood and Gondor lately."

A loud stomp echoed as Thranduil abruptly halted in his pacing. "Indeed!" he cried, jolting his son with the sharpness of his voice. "You spend your endless days, nose buried in your - _affairs_ - in the privacy of your quarters — either that, or you're joyriding all day long from one end of the kingdom to the other, going with these lowly war parties and ensnaring hoards of temptresses along the way. And you remain oblivious to anything else. Cad, no better than a stable boy! _What have you been doing lately?"_

The silence was so thick it was possible to penetrate with a dagger. 

_I do not joyride_, Legolas thought fiercely, and it took all of his willpower to not let his disgust be obvious on his fine face. 

"SPEAK!!" roared Thranduil.

Yet another silence reigned.

"Nothing of what you have just said," Legolas muttered finally, hands fidgeting with each other, and right after the words had issued from his mouth he pinched his lips tightly together. 

"Then what?" whispered Thranduil, leaning forward slightly. He laughed coldly. "Whatever you could have been doing, whilst away from my supervision, I am quite sure that it is not anything of either extreme importance or extreme benefit. And so" he clapped his hands. "This is exactly why I have called you. For your ignorance on political matters — and for yourlack of intelligent activities" he paced across the throne room and seized a scroll of parchment from a low-lying table. "I shall be sending you on a diplomatic trip. Your very first as well, I believe."

"You are mistaken, my lord," Legolas countered. He let his hands drop to his sides. "I believe I had received a similar assignment a few years ago —"

"That was _only_ to deliver news to Lord Elrond," snapped Thranduil. "But this time I shall not send out my own son to be a petty messenger boy. You shall be an ambassador — and you will travel to Minas Tirith to smooth our affairs out for us with the King Elessar Telcontar."

A cold pang of fear stabbed Legolas in the chest. Him, Prince Legolas Greenleaf, an _ambassador_?

"I thought we had plenty of bureaucrats for this sort of errand," he seethed.

"This IS no _errand_!!" thundered the King, silencing Legolas. "If you would still have any wits about you to see, this is an extremely important mission, especially considering the fact that our kingdom's relationship with Telcontar's has been spiraling downward for quite some time already. And so, to make a long thing short and _direct_," said Thranduil, snapping each syllable as he spoke, "if you fail, my boy" and he pointed a long finger at Legolas, "Mirkwood shall be over. And I shall personally see to your disposal."

He walked over and clapped the large scroll into Legolas's hand — which shook.

"When do I leave?" asked the Prince, weakly.

"Your instructions are all written inside this scroll," said the King, "as I have plenty of better things to do than to instruct you by my own tongue. And now, get out of my sight, and get yourself smartened and ready, or else I shall have you skinned alive!!"

Once outside in open air Legolas wrenched a gasp and collapsed against one of the many beech trees of the courtyard. His mind was swirling, still not responsive to what had just happened to him — it had all come too quick, unprecedented. A slender finger reached up and grazed the spot where it stung on his face, and it came back to him, smeared entirely in a dark color he took to be red in the darkness. 

"Ambassador," he said slowly, heart hammering. "To Gondor."

Indeed, he didn't know what was going on. Not that he did not pay any attention whatsoever to political news and tidings, as Thranduil had assumed — but, Mirkwood, and Gondor, on the verge of blows? They had to be, if one single mishap on a diplomatic errand would result in, as Thranduil had put it, the "end" of the kingdom. But — Legolas refused to entirely believe his father, even if he _was_ Lord of Mirkwood — King Aragorn was his _friend_. If there was any sort of political tension, it would have been perpetuated by him, definitely, or somebody high in the ranks of his administration — certainly it would not be spontaneous. 

Or indeed, the sparring could have been his own father's fault. How was he to know?

It was not that Legolas was only a pleasure-seeker — he had had an avid ear for intrigues and such within his home court; only ever since having gone and returned from the Quest of the Ringbearer, a decade ago, he had given up such interests. There had been enough politics — and oh yes, enough fighting — in the War of the Ring to last any elf a generous number of Ages upon Middle-Earth. But, truly — if Mirkwood was really in such a precarious situation, why, Legolas still would've known of it even if he had been locked up in one of the palace's cavernous grain storage sheds. He was the King's own son, for the sake of good Ilúvatar.

Then, could it have possibly been a plan of Thranduil's — to simply get rid of him?

That was entirely possible. Legolas Greenleaf, indeed, was the youngest child of his, and the only one who had ever even thought of consorting with other races — and for that one aspect rendering him a queer amongst the Royals of Mirkwood, a degenerate in the eyes of his elders. And, for that reason or some other, his father had yielded a very strong dislike for him, as far back as he could remember. Thranduil had been angry enough when he had made contact with Rohans and such while on excursions out south of Mirkwood — and after he had come back from the Quest, absent for two years, the first thing he had told his father was that he had made friends with a Dwarf. And indeed, that had perhaps entirely sundered their delicate relationship, right there and then. Legolas remembered what had followed his blurting — a deep gash on his throat, he recalled, which explained all the horrified looks his subjects had given him on the way back to his quarters, and the blood had completely run down and stained the collar of his robe brown — but to think of it, that was exactly why Thranduil always wore fancy and ostentatious bands on his fingers when administering blows. He prided in scarring Legolas, and only Legolas — for he was his youngest, his least favorite of alland the most perfect, most flawless, most beautiful of all.

Why, he had come to think that Thranduil was jealous about his own son's beauty surpassing his. 

"The bastard," Legolas muttered bitterly, and he slowly raised himself out of the sitting position he had slumped into. "If there is any bastard within the Royal House of Greenwood, it's him."

The bloodstained fingers fumbled for the silk ribbon that tied the scroll, and the parchment leapt out when it had been undone. He lifted it up and strained his eyes — it was extremely dark, under the eaves of the beech, but he was not in the mood to walk up to a pathway torch. "_Legolas Greenleaf, Fourth Son of Thranduil, Prince of Greenwoodto be Ambassador to the King Aragorn Elessar Telcontar of Gondor, and shall leaveon the morrow_"

"Morgoth damn that son of a bitch!" he spat, flinging the scroll onto the ground. A few seconds flew by before he realized he had dirtied the thing, and that would have been a potential cause for more punishment — so he cursed anew under his breath and attempted to brush off the soil that had been flecked onto its creamy surface.

But there was at least one thing that was good, out of all the dilemma. Legolas was going to see his friend Aragorn again. And, no matter how highly-ranked Aragorn was, King of Gondor, King of Ithilien, King of Middle-Earth, Varda's hair, King of Arda — that would not make a single difference. Aragorn, in his heart, was still Aragorn, just like he had remained Strider to the hobbits even after his true lineage had been revealed — and an old friend was still a friend. 

Perhaps, then, the trip was not going to be so bad, after all. 

With a mournful sigh, Legolas slipped out of the trees and righted himself onto the lit pathway. The scroll was now clutched, behind his back — and he kept his eyes trained on the stones, counting them as he stepped over them, his hair swaying in rhythm to his footfalls. For those few moments he had drifted away from Middle-Earth, lost in his own thought — and his keen elven senses failed to notice the slight updraft that swirled at his robes to the side.

"So," drawled a low voice, and a tall figure, taller even than himself, stepped onto the path in front of him, barring his way. "Isn't it _Legolas Greenleaf_."

Legolas jolted and looked up into the face of another elf — and he recognized his eldest sibling, Prince Nimaran, heir to the throne of Mirkwood. He let his fine lips curl into a snarl. Even though the two were brothers, they were separated by some five hundred years — and they were virtually archenemies of each other.

"Get out of my way," he muttered angrily, and attempted to shove his way past his brother.

Nimaran simply scooted back a few paces and spread out his long arms, again putting himself in front of Legolas. The latter gritted his teeth — he had always hated, among so many other things, the way Nimaran would use his size advantage over him for such grating purposes. Indeed, the elder was several inches taller than Legolas, and much broader in build — so definitely, much, much stronger. 

"What's bothering poor Leggy today?" he wheedled, smirking as he mocked him. "Has Pops given him a leetle something annoying to deal with?"

"_You_ are the annoying thing he has given me to deal with," Legolas retorted. "And back off, Nimaran, because I have something far more important than shuffling around with the likes of you to take care of."

The smirk on Nimaran's face disappeared and was replaced immediately by a glare. "_What_?" he lashed out. "Is that the way you talk to your elder, you delinquent good-for-nothing?"

"Yet even the delinquent is the one here who hasn't confused his family standings," Legolas shot back sharply. "You are not my elder simply because you number more than me in years. My only elders are my father and mother; and as for you and I, Nimaran, we exist upon the same rankings."

"Indeed," Nimaran hissed, and he leaned forward until his auburn locks were nearly grazing Legolas's face. "Yet five hundred years is still ample time for me to have become more refined and educated than you, you little conceited prawn, so still you must at least show me some _respect_!" Then, he raised two hands, convulsed into claws, and gripped Legolas's arms -

"Oh, Nimaran!" cried two other voices from the woods, and Nimaran jumped. 

"WHAT?!!!" he roared, furious at being interrupted in his little play-around. The claws dropped off.

Two shadowy figures emerged in the dark fringes beyond the path.

"Didn't you know?" the voices cried. "Our very own Legolas Greenleaf has been sent as an ambassador to Gondor!"

Gaerdrin and Tirilan, the second and third sons of Thranduil, respectively, jumped out of the darkness and landed next to them. 

Nimaran turned with wide eyes and a mouth open in incredulity to Legolas. "Is that _so?"_ he cried, and the short sentence dissolved into a high laugh. He clapped his hands in glee. "Why, congratulations, my dear brother!"

"Who told you this?" Legolas gagged out, smoldering eyes flickering to the other two. Gaerdrin and Tirilan weren't exactly his favorites, either. 

"_Father_ did," Trilan proclaimed, and he tossed his black hair proudly. "I guess you barely left after we two came in."

"And when do you leave for Gondor?" asked Gaerdrin, eagerly, and to Legolas's acute abhorrence he also latched two hands onto his shoulders.

"Tomorrow," the latter answered curtly, and he wrenched himself free from Gaerdrin's grasp. "And I suppose that would make all three of you quite happy, indeed, for you probably aren't going to see me for a month afterwards, or for several -"

_Of which I am glad_, he thought bitterly, but decided against adding that to his retort. It would only prompt Nimaran to send him flying with a single kick into the upper branches of a neighboring tree. 

"Oh, no, Legolas my dear, you misunderstand us completely!" cried Tirilan, and Legolas bit hard into his lip until the blood flowed to prevent himself from retching at hearing him. "We're worried about you."

"_Very_ worried about you," Gaerdrin chimed in.

"Spare you concern," spat Legolas, "and spend it on more worthwhile things. Like your lovers, to say about them, or each of your _several _lovers —"

"But Manwë above, Legolas, we'd think something's not_normal_, with you, if you aren't seeing girls!" protested Tirilan. "And really, what IS the problem with you? Are you STILL a virgin?!"

Gaerdrin and Nimaran erupted into hysterical fits of laughter. 

"Shut up!" cried Legolas, and his voice echoed and wove amongst the upper boughs of the brambles.

"Really, though, we'd think twice about simply sauntering into that White City of theirs, if we were you," said Tirilan, his composure regained. "Those people don't _like_ elves."

"_Don't like_?" Gaerdrin echoed incredulously. "That's a blatant understatement there, dear Tirilan. More like, they — HATE — elves."

"Jerk off," snapped Legolas, and seizing his chance he sidled past the gap in between their bodies in a flash. Oh, how he hated his brothers

"Surely, though," drawled the voice of Nimaran, "I would consider you _lucky_ if the Gondorians did not siimply decide to shoot you down at the gates —"  
"_You_ would be shot down, for you are too fat and slow-witted even to avoid the coarse crossbow bolts of Men," Legolas said tightly, and he slowly turned around. "And as for myself, I am a friend of Gondor's King Elessar, and he would not give me anything besides a _friend's_ welcome for me."

Three voices laughed softly in the night — simultaneously - mockingly. "Legolas Greenleaf," they chorused, " _do you even _know_ what is happening between the houses of Thranduil and Telcontar at this very moment?_"

Two fine black eyebrows lowered themselves, and the lips slowly drained themselves of what scarce color they had. 

"_What?"_

Pause.

__

Quite suddenly, a flourish of trumpets blared, violently, breaking the still, and hair flew about as all of the four heads whipped about in their direction.   
"Dinner banquet!" proclaimed Tirilan, totally disregarding the loose end of the conversation, and the last Legolas saw of them were their retreating backs, ornate robes billowing in the flickering torchlight as they ran back long the pathway. 

"See you there, dear Legolas!" Gaerdrin echoed mockingly.

Legolas let out a slow hiss of breath and tilted his chin up. _Damn brothers and pompous attitudes_, his mind snarled, and slowly, with limbs of lead, he shifted, his back as straight and stiff as a ramrod, and also proceeded to walk up the path, very slowly. 

_And damn their ridiculous play. Utterly and totally preposterous. _

Aragorn is my friend_._

Yet, what did Legolas know?

End Part One

A/N: I have only skimmed the Silmarillion and the appendices to LOTR — so if anybody knows for real what the names of Legolas's siblings and relatives are, or how many he has, _send it in via review column and I shall be eternally grateful. _

Final A/N: Well? I know it has not gotten anywhere, plot-wise — but first chapters are always so. Reviews shall determine whether this continues or not. I just seem to adore the idea of choosing loyalties (and spurning former die-hard friends and even relatives to turn on each other, nay, stab each other in the back). If you like it, tell me, and I shall try to stoke the fire of inspiration inside my head (plus feed my Muse). And at the request of my readersin a few days, this fic shall either be updated, or it shall be deleted from Fanfiction.Net. Good day to you all, and Namarië ~ Verok.


	2. Powder on the Edges

Convergence of the Banners: Chapter Two

Powder on the Edges

Rating: PG-13

A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed the first time! Here comes Part Two.

Let the madness commence again

Convergence of the Banners

Powder on the Edges

The vast dining hall was lit brightly with the golden sheen of many torches, swimming with many laughing voices and the sweet sound of minstrel music and singing. To Legolas, though, the sounds he heard were all but sweet. It had always felt like some sort of dreamworld, when he stepped into such crowded gatherings every evening — a horrific dreamworld — in which people swirled, flitting about him mundanely, and approached him with smiles and greetings — yet only did so on a false heart. To make it short and to the point, being in company was like being immersed in a mirage panorama — a phantom world — for everything, truly, went only as far as skin deep. And Prince Legolas drifted down the long aisles between well-laden tables, robes swirling behind him, nodding as many a lovely damsel sidled up to him and lilted his name in hello, saluting with the inclination of an arm when a squire or lord approached him — but his wondrous blue eyes, during all of it, were glazed, and lifeless — for he saw nothing but mere apparitions about him, and meaningless ghosts.

And indeed, if he were not the _Prince_ Legolas, he would not be facing ghosts. He would be contending against demons. 

During all of the pre-dining sermon he remained emotionless. Rarely did he converse with anybody, or even do so much as say a word; and when he finally sat down in his chair, next to his repulsive brothers, his appetite had all but gone. That was why he was so thin — a living wraith, people had dubbed him, as opposed to Nimaran, who was quite well-built, and the others, Gaerdrin and Tirilan, who were incapable of getting any bit fat even if they each ate a roasted ox. Legolas's gold fork would simply move, up and down, up and down, very slowly, in a monotonous fashion, while his eyes were fixed in some faraway corner of the room — and when he was not picking scantily at his food, he would simply stare down at his fare and order them around his plate with his utensil. And all the while during the meal, as he would remain oblivious, sunk in his own world, his older siblings would openly dart sneers at him — and the King, who sat at the head of the High Table on a raised, jeweled throne-dais, would look upon the Prince with smoldering eyes. 

Tonight, as opposed to the regular dining, a whispering knot of advisors stood not far from the High Table, eyeing the eating occupants. One of them inched over, and, discreetly, gave Legolas a little nudge on the shoulder.

The Elf Prince jumped, cast violently out of his reverie.

"Wha — yes?"

The face of Larëndil, one of the high-ranked counselors of Thrandul, swam into view in front of him.

"My prince!" he said brightly. "I have a question for you."

Legolas furrowed his brow.

"Fire on."

"Were you not sent to Gondor a short moment ago as ambassador to King Elessar?"

So new traveled fast in the Palace, indeed. Legolas swallowed his small mouthful of potatoes and nodded. 

Larëndil sighed, and, motioning to a servant, had a chair brought up next to Legolas's station. He sat down, adjusting his long robes, and the Prince set his fork down and scooted a bit over to him.

"I have tried my utmost to dissuade my lord," Larëndil said in undertone to Legolas. "But it seems that he is adamant about his decision, no matter whether it is plain folly or not. But he is not being very wise about sending you - I am terribly worried about your wellbeing out there, your Highness."

Legolas opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something, but he checked himself in time and gave a deep nod.

"And?'

It was Larëndil's turn to frown. "Do you not know of the events that have occurred between your father Thranduil and your friend Telcontar as of late?"

"Everybody has been talking about it," Legolas replied, quickly. "Even my brothers —"

Nimaran, Gaerdrin and Tirilan perked up and whipped in their direction. It took one of Larëndil's more malevolent and piercing stares to make them resume on their eating.

"Of course everybody has," he mouthed at the Prince. "But, do you realize, they tell only of the situation, and not of the facts behind it?"

Legolas bit him lip.

"Why?"

Larëndil shook his head. "I am afraid everybody is hiding something from you," he said.

"Hiding something?!"

"Shhh! Not so loud! But yes, hiding something."

Oh, then it was no whatsoever surprise. Legolas lowered a black eyebrow. 

"Hidingwhat?"

"Something that concerns you, your Highness," Larëndil answered, so softly that even Legolas, who was only a few inches away from him, had trouble hearing the words. But of course, Thranduil sat only a few yards away from both of them — and his father probably had even sharper ears.

"Me? Something about me?"

Larëndil made a small noise of disdain and leaned so close that his breath played on the tip of Legolas's nose. "Of course it is about you," he replied faintly. "And it is a conspiracy, regarding you, my Prince."

Legolas swallowed and bit his finely chiseled lower lip, which was white.

"I would like to know what sort of conspiracy it is, your Excellency."

The counselor-in-chief gave another soft _pshaw_ and shook his head, sending a few auburn strands flying. "Your father the King is so adept at enforcing secrets that even I do not know. Nor do my lower colleagues have any hint of what it might be"

"But it concerns Gondor," deduced Legolas. "And why I was sent there also ties it in."

"Why, most certainly. But even given these leads, I can only speculate."

The prince nodded and turned back to his golden plate.

"You know," he remarked, "I leave, first thing tomorrow."

Larëndil's face turned into one of alarm. "Tomorrow?" he hissed, incredulity flecked in his deep wont. "Has my lord gone mad?" He started wagging his head violently. "No, noif you depart anytime within this season, nay, the year, you shall not be safe. And of all places he has sent you to — where in Gondor?"

"The capital city, of course," answered the Prince. "Minas Tirith."

Larëndil wrung his hands in a very out-of-character display of anxiety. Legolas, seeing his reaction, was very much confused by it all.

"Why would I not be safe?" he demanded, and gave Larëndil's wide sleeve a small tug.

The older elf bounded out of his chair. "I do not know for sure," he admitted, hastily — "though I do feel it in myself, very strongly. No, your father has made a grave mistake. I shall go see him now —"

Legolas seized Larëndil's robes and yanked him back down into a sitting position. "You know Father does not like to be interrupted in his meals," he breathed, seething from his own pummeling heartbeat. "And, besides, he is extremely angry with me today —"

"He is _always_ angry with you," retorted Larëndil. "And that makes a very bad impression on me, my Prince — he spoils the others, and yet he prides in giving you beating rounds —"

"I have heard that," said another voice, this one slurred and tinged with snobbery. Both the counselor and the prince jumped, jolted rather badly, and they turned their heads about. 

The silver-haired Corilan, chief advisor and Grand Vizier to Thranduil, stood in front of them, nose lobbed high in the air and hands held behind his back in an imperious attitude. In front of him stood a young male elf, blond and unusually attractive — one of the cupbearers of the King — and with his bare arms he held a gold tray, on which rested a jeweled pewter goblet and a bowl of large figs. 

"And indeed, I know why your father is not happy with you," continued Corilan, relishing in the snarl that was developing on the rival Larëndil's handsome face. "You have been too much absorbed in your own silly affairs to — er- _devote_ — the proper amount of time to your duty as prince, and your kingdom."

Larëndil, who wholly backed Legolas, snorted sharply. The Prince only shifted, sat up a bit taller, and eyed Corilan back with his most dazzling stare — making the elf-lord recoil ever so slightly. 

"Whatwhat is that for?" the Prince asked, turning and gesturing abstractly at the cupbearing boy, and the tray in his hands.

"Oh!" Corilan said, and his face brightened. He reached out both arms and took the tray from the boy. "This is your way to — win — some favor back from your dear father. Go up to him and present this to him, I'm sure he'll like it. King Thranduil has always a weakness for good fruit and wine — and he will not be mad at you, I am sure of it."

Legolas tossed his flaxen tresses and laughed hollowly. "Indeed!" he jested. "I shall be astounded if he doesn't slap the tray out of my hands when I approach him."

Corilan glared momentarily before reverting to his little, crooked smile. "That is not the way to go about life, my most sadistic Highness," he lectured spiffily, pursing his lips. "And, if what you fear does indeed happen, I shall owe you a generously-sized sack full of gems, or gold, or whatever you desire. But I think Thranduil would have better sense than to disgrace his own son in front of such a large gathering —"

"Thranduil treats his son worse than a slave," muttered Larëndil vehemently, out of the corner of his mouth.

Corilan snorted back at him, then pretended not to have heard anything at all. He leaned forward almost in a bow, in some sort of strange attitude — and with both hands he presented the tray to Legolas.

"My Prince," he intoned.

Legolas frowned and tilted his eyebrows, and hesitated for quite some time. Larëndil was watching him, apprehensively — and, after nearly a minute's fidgeting debate, the elf-prince finally rose, and took the tray out of Corilan's hands.

"If this goes wrong," he sneered at the Vizier, on a sudden impulse of rebelliousness, "the blame is on you, your Excellency."

Corilan gave a soft laugh in submissiveness and stepped respectfully to one side, looking very much pleased with himself. Larëndil's eyes were trained in a furious glare upon Corilan — as if he wished to strike him for daring to a Prince around in such a fashion.

But, Legolas admitted to himself that his limbs were shaking quite badly as he slowly approached the throne-dais, the tray in his hands. The pewter goblet clattered somewhat loudly — and Legolas took a chance to peer inside at its contents as he went. It was a reddish sort of wine — perhaps the strong grape varieties spawned from Esgaroth, on Long Lake — yes, it really was — blood red, with the unmistakable pinkish tint. And on the edges of the cup, where the dark, translucent liquid met the electrum-colored metal, there lingered some sort of yellowish, powdery substance that strongly reminded Legolas of flour.

Wait — 

_Yellowish, powdery substance?_

The Prince halted abruptly and stared openly into the cup. Of course, every single monarch, royal and court character knew what powder sticking to the sides of a cup of wine meant.

Who in Iluvatar's name was Corilan?

Legolas whirled around so violently that the goblet was nearly upset, hair fluttering quite impressively about him, and trained his eyes in a mixture of disbelief and fury at the elf-lord who stood at his spot. Corilan wore a mysterious half-smile — as if he either had expected Legolas's action, or had completely disregarded it. Legolas's frantic heartbeats were shaking his entire frame, and he felt two powerful sensations acting at once — a leaden weight descending into his insides, accompanied by a torrential maëlstrom of cold water swirling up into his stomach, threatening to drown his lungs as well. His vision blurred, and it seemed as if everything in front of his eyes had slanted sharply, and were distorting themselves fast into grotesque shapes. His head throbbed — and he didn't know whether to faint dead away on the spot, or scream and cast both the tray, and its contents, into Corilan's sallow face. 

_"Boy! What are you doing, out of your seat?"_

A tomblike silence fell amidst the vast gathering, and, with large quivering eyes, knees slowly turning into pudding, Legolas turned around to the speaker. His father had seen him with the tray, and now stood up from his throne-dais.

"What is it?"

The Prince struggled to open his mouth, but it was as if somebody had fused it shut with a dab of the hobbit's treacle-tart treat, and was impossible to open. And, when he did succeed in wrenching his teeth apart, he could only utter a stream of incoherent babblings.

"SPEAK!!!" roared Thranduil. 

Then, suddenly, unexplainably, an ethereal calm fell upon the once quaking Legolas — and slowly, with feet turned into heavy metal, he advanced upon the King.

"Your wine, my lord," he spoke out — and, goblet rattling faintly as his hands shook, he held out the tray to Thranduil. His mind screamed a brief protest at him, but it was instantly shut out by something else, more powerful. It was as if somebody had taken over all his functions — his actions, his emotions, everything — and he were in total enslavement of body and mind. 

_What was he doing?_

Thranduil simply looked at his son — and he stood, poised, stone still as if he were modeling for a sculptor's statue — and his eyes drifted from the Prince and fell upon the goblet, and the bowl of figs.

Then, something within Legolas snapped. His senses flooded without abandon back into his ravaged mind — and, on impulse — both without warning, and overwhelmingly strong — he did the most stupid thing he had ever done in his entire elven life. 

"I know what you thinkFather," he croaked. "You are afraid for your safety."

Though Legolas could not see, and did not see, Corilan behind him widened his eyes. Larëndil slowly stood up from his chair — and the other three princes' forks dropped with three sharp clatters that rang throughout the entire vast hall.

"Then, I, Legolas Greenleaf, your son, shall drink some of this wine beforehandto test it." And, without even a second thought or reconsideration — in some sort of bitter resignation, almost - Legolas reached out his hand, picked up the goblet — and downed a full mouthful into his throat. 

Still it was dead silence that succeeded the act, followed by the chink as the cup was set back onto the tray — and the Prince slowly set his burden down upon the nearby table, his two eyes glassy and staring, mouth frozen. To Legolas, the wine tasted like wine — with just a slightly funny tinge to it — and for a few terrifying seconds, nothing happened. Then, an odd ringing began developing in his ears, followed by a pounding, then a thrashing, it seemed — and his head chilled tremendously, then caught on fire, and was compressed in a screw-drive. His arms and legs went tingly, then lost all sensation, becoming numb. The blurs then turned into bright swirls, and then fireworks and stars — and he became deaf to all but a faint buzzing that resonated in his skull. And it was as if somebody had snaked a strong elven rope about his neck, and was slowly tightening it, and tightening it, forbidding any air to enter his windpipe — then slowly, but gradually, the buzzing became louder, the pain ever more vicious, the explosions ever more bright — and his limbs ever more dead. 

Yes, Corilan's poison was strong. And he was to die, quite soon. Very soon.

Thranduil saw his son stand where he was, erect as a pillar, for several silent minutes — and his subjects watched the Prince, some in shock, others in horror, along with him. They saw the color fly like magic out of his face, making the blue streaks of veins become grotesquely visible, and his temples throbbed red, while the fingers became ashen gray. Finally, Legolas swayed — once, twice, three times — like the delicate little leaf he was, caught in a merciless gale, bitten with frost — and in a swirl of shining silk and pale gold tresses he turned up his eyes, and slumped down onto the floor with a hollow thud. He was dead.

End Part Two

Final A/N: Whew! This chapter took a long time to pen — damned writer's block. Evil school is underway for me, so expect less updates — but I shall try to wring up Chapter Three in a week or two. Until later, Kudos! ~ Verok__

And, ohfor your information, post-script: I did NOT kill Legolas off. I would never do that V.


End file.
